


Emboldened

by Mythweaver



Category: Final Fantasy IV
Genre: Alcohol, Awkwardness, Dancing, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-13
Updated: 2012-04-13
Packaged: 2017-11-03 13:44:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythweaver/pseuds/Mythweaver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rydia corners Edge during wedding festivities in search of answers. All that she leaves with are more questions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Emboldened

It was the wine that made her bold—and unsteady. Rydia wished she could attribute her newfound gumption to her own strength of spirit, but was willing to admit she might have imbibed more than just the first round of toasts. No one had warned her how powerful the burgundy liquid was, and before her brain had caught up to her body, her feet had carried her halfway across the room to demand answers from a certain ninja king.

She found Edge standing in a corner, watching the dancers with keen disinterest. What was he trying to prove, she fumed, as she wandered clumsily through small crowds and around clusters of tables to reach him. He, the man of off-color jokes and snide remarks, the one who always had something to say and an opinion to give, solicited or not, was hiding in a corner; aloof, poised, and strangest of all, silent.

All she wanted was a hello, and he hadn’t even offered her that much throughout the course of the day. Worst of all, amid dozens of friends and comrades in attendance for the ceremony that morning, he had given her nothing more than a curt dismissal. Not a word during the greeting of guests, nor during the wedding feast either. Had the world gone and flipped itself upside down in the three short months she’d been away? Where was the brash irresponsible man she’d grown to know and joke with during their travels together?

She knew the answer to that. A corner. Hiding from the festivities, hiding from _her._

She stopped two arm lengths away, suddenly aware of where she was but dizzy from the wine. Why hadn’t Edward taken her cup away after three rounds?

She glared at him, swaying slightly, and tried to remind herself why she was standing where she was in the first place. Loathing coupled with hurt feelings were the first things that came to mind, but when she noticed he was actually looking back, her heart performed an involuntary somersault in her chest.

 _By the gods_ , she inwardly sighed.

She wanted to slap him in the face, shake him hard at the shoulders, and ask if he had lost his mind, but all she could do was stare back at him blankly, her mission forgotten under the scrutiny of his gray-blue eyes. A face normally half covered in cloth, obscured by hoods, and all other devices of the ninja trade, was now exposed to full view. A jaw with well defined angles, eyes that gleamed with cleverness, and silver hair somehow always in a state of organized chaos atop his head. It bothered her to even be thinking about those things. They were friends, combatants with words, and his earlier behavior left her thinking she was no longer a worthy sparring partner, that was all. All she wanted was an explanation, not a chance to admire the arrangement of his features. She blamed it on the wine.

He was still staring at her, a strange look of panic evident in the slight crease of his brow.

“Edge,” she forced out.

“Rydia,” he answered.

There was a strained silence between them that continued until the musicians changed tunes and the dancers reformed their lines.

 “I think it’s your turn to say something,” she pointed out.

 “Rydia,” he repeated.

How much had _he_ had to drink, she wondered. It was time to take a different direction.

She pointed wildly in the direction of the dance floor, unable to fully control her movements.

“Look at them, don’t they make a wonderful couple?” she asked, trying to pry him out.

But he wasn’t looking at the dance floor anymore, pretending or otherwise. He was looking at her. As much as she had desired his attention earlier, now she was uncomfortable, and he still wasn’t talking.

“Rosa looks beautiful,” she tried again.

“Yes you do,” he admitted.

“What?”

Had she heard him correctly? A blush crept up her neck to her cheeks. The wine, it must be the wine, she convinced herself.

But the look on his face told her he was equally stunned to have said the words. There was another pause between them.

“I—I thought you looked lonely, but I can see I’m only bothering you,” she stammered nervously, starting to move away.  

He reached out and caught her arm, his fingers coming in contact with bare skin. A jolt ran up Rydia’s spine, and she looked at him, dazed.

“Wait,” he pled.

Curse the wine! He deserved a smack to the face, not her rapt attention!

Despite her better judgment, she lingered, intoxicated by the feel of his warmth on her arm, by the closeness of him. She was dizzy again, but for more reasons than the wine, reasons she didn’t understand. 

“Do you dance?” he asked, far too awkwardly for his usual suave demeanor.

“Dance?” some semblance of sanity returned to her just then. She’d had too much to drink. She didn’t like the way he was making her feel. She’d come here to scold him, not dance with him, and his eyes, _oh his eyes._

She pulled her arm back and swayed from the effort. It took a lot of energy to pin her gaze to the floor where the granite was starting to spin, and not accept his invitation. “I’m sorry,” she sputtered. “I—I have to go.”


	2. Tipsy

Rydia stumbled away from the ballroom doors as if she were sleepwalking. Thoughts were tumbling from her head like rocks in an avalanche and her heart was still racing, even though her feet hadn't touched the dance floor.

 _So are you_ , his words still tickled her ears.

Beautiful—her? She refused to take his words at face value—not when she had been standing in the same room as Rosa, a true beauty. Her doubts hardened to loathing as she stormed away.

_But the way he'd looked at her…_

She recalled the stormy look in his eyes, and the uncharacteristic sincerity she'd seen there. It raised goosebumps on her arms to recall it. She kept on walking, propelled really, and turned the corner on her retreat to her quarters. But once she was standing in the next hallway, she realized she didn't know which direction to go. She swayed to and fro for a moment and stumbled forward again. Was she supposed to have turned left or right? She faltered and tried to orient herself, then thought she heard someone calling out her name. Her heart stopped beating as she strained to listen, hoping he hadn't followed her. She reached out to grip the closest wall for balance.

After a few minutes, with her head still swimming, she plunged through the nearest doorway and found herself in one of Baron's small courtyards. There were several small gardens tucked into nooks in this part of the castle with flowering vines that climbed the columns there. During the day, the scent of the flowers was like that of honey, but Rydia's mind couldn't wrap her head around sights and sounds just now—everything was starting to lurch uncomfortably.

She walked over to a stone bench set between two columns, intending to sit down. Instead, she missed the seat and slid to the ground beside it. She rested there for a moment, trying to gain some clarity again before trying to stand, but she was tired—so tired—and rested her head against the cool granite.

It was a warm night, and she could still hear strains of music drifting through the air and bouncing against the rooftops. It was soothing and she felt she could fall asleep here in this courtyard. Perhaps if she was lucky, no one would notice she was here until late morning. The thought of sleeping under the stars was intoxicating, powerful, and it was becoming harder and harder for Rydia to keep her eyes open. Whatever rush she had felt a short while ago had worn off to a deep sort of compulsion. Sleep. She had to sleep.

At first she thought she was dreaming when a warm hand came to rest on her shoulder, and another on her forehead. She heard someone mutter something quietly and felt herself being lifted to her feet, a strong arm tucked around her waist and supporting her at the elbow. She was led like a small child out of the courtyard and into the castle corridor. She dragged her feet, and if not for the support of this person, would have fallen to the floor. She wasn't sure why she felt safe, so safe she barely bothered opening her eyes. Somehow she knew she would be taken care of and allowed herself to be half-carried down the hall.

The walk felt like an eternity, but at last a door opened before her and she was led inside. The room was dark, and a cool breeze streamed through an open window. Rydia sighed, the cool air bringing her senses awake. She was assisted to a chair near a small table in the center of the room, and once she was deposited into it, she took a moment to discover the identity of her companion.

It was hard to distinguish features in the dark, and her eyes still weren't entirely reliable, but when he kindled the lamp in the room and handed her a cup of water, she saw him plainly enough.

"Edge?" she forced out, surprised and embarrassed all at once.

"Drink that," he instructed, nodding to the cup of water in her hand.

She glared at him, unsteadily lifting the cup to her lips, sloshing water on her chin when she went to sip.

Edge's hand suddenly covered her own, helping her not to spill all over herself. She felt her face redden involuntarily with more embarrassment.

"You've never had alcohol before, have you?" he asked with an exasperated smile.

"I'm—fiiine," she said, almost waving the cup in the air along with her hand until Edge gripped her wrist and helped her set the cup safely on the tabletop. "I can—handle," she tried again, and then groaned. "Feel terrbul," she said with a sigh.

Edge was studying her. Always studying her. "What?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I've never seen you like this," he answered.

She raised a brow and tried to look at him evenly, and then laughed. "Of course it'd be you," she said, thinking each word through very carefully. "First you won't speak to me, and now you're—now you're here—helping me."

"Come on," Edge said, standing up, and stepping closer to help her stand as well.

She brushed his hand away. "No," she said vehemently. "You—you _ignored_ me!" she said.

"Come on," he repeated, lifting her by the elbows despite her struggling. He helped her walk over to her bed and when he let go of her arms, she fell onto the mattress in a graceless heap.

"After everything we went through—we faced down—faced down _death_ together, and you couldn't even—what are you doing?" she asked, suddenly noticing he was doing something to her feet.

"Did you really want to fall asleep with your shoes on?" he asked with a pointed look, holding up one of her delicate sandals for her to see before setting it beside the bed.

Rydia decided she didn't care about that overmuch. "I thought we were friends," she went on. "I spent months— _months_ —thinking about what you were doing, wond-ring why…" she trailed off. "Why did I never hear from you? Did you decide I wasn't worth your time?"

"Rydia—" Edge tried to interrupt her.

"Do you have _any idea_ how many times I wondered if—if you were thinking about me as much as—as much as I was thinking about you? That I—cared for you," she murmured, starting to lose focus and feeling tears on her cheeks.

She felt blankets being pulled over her, and having said everything she had wanted to say earlier, she now felt empty, relieved, and content to let the day end and allow all of this embarrassment to be over.

She hoped deep down that he didn't think she was insane. She was nestled against her pillows, very close to unconsciousness, but she sensed him draw near.

"I was," he whispered, as he leaned over to kiss her forehead.

"What?" she mumbled, briefly opening her eyes to see him smiling.

"Thinking of you," he told her, brushing the tears from her cheek with his thumb. "Get some rest," he said quietly and then left her side.

She watched his retreating form, feeling warm in the face. Had she really? Had she admitted her feelings to him? She pulled the blankets entirely over her head, smiling like a fool. Perhaps this was all a dream. Perhaps in the morning she'd wake up and none of this would have happened.

Part of her hoped that to be true. But as she raised a hand to her cheek where the feeling of his touch still lingered, she hoped that all of it had happened, that all of it was true. She closed her eyes and felt the last of her reserves give out and the unconsciousness take over. But she fell asleep with a smile that never left her lips.


	3. The Morning After

 

                The following morning dawned to a spectacular sunrise. Rydia rolled onto her side, and blinked at the light spilling across her room. The burgundy curtains were drawn wide, as she had forgotten to close them the day before, and she glared at the accursed portal where cheerful birdsong had begun to filter through. For several minutes, all she could do was sit and wait for her head to wrap itself around the idea of being awake—a difficult accomplishment for one with a pounding temple and burning throat.

                The minutes ticked away, until she plunged face down onto her mattress, groaning occasionally. Snippets of memories were returning to her, slowly completing the chain of events from the previous evening, and she wasn’t fond of the picture they were painting.

 _Had  she  really?_ _She  had—she  really  had._ She pulled a pillow over her head and rolled back and forth like a tantrum prone child, screaming into the soft down-filled blankets beneath her.

               What had she been _thinking?_ She had blurted it out—how she felt about him—and she felt a blush rage across her cheeks and creep down her neck. _He probably  thinks  I was  talking  in  my  sleep. He  probably  thinks  I’m  insane._

                She walked with stiff steps, a feeling of dread settling onto her shoulders like heavy weights. She imagined a dozen different conversations in a dozen different ways, but each one ended precariously in a sea of excuses. She was about to grasp the handle of the dining hall doors, when someone else intercepted her hand and pulled her aside. She pinched her brows together in protest of the brisk movement, but when she saw who it was that was detaining her, her heart beat double-quick—a step ahead of her thoughts.

               It was Edge who stood before her. He was wearing a shirt that hugged his lean frame attractively and he’d rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, much at ease. His silver hair was carelessly tousled, and despite his eyes appearing a little more tired than usual, he was a spectacular sight. But then—he usually was. Rydia nervously licked her lips, eyes wide. She was starting to feel as though her lungs had shrunk and a strange buzzing had begun to fill her ears.   




                “We need to talk,” he said, his tone apologetic. His behavior reminded her of the dance floor, and she was finding this more than a little suspicious.

                “What—now?” she asked, her mouth feeling like it was wadded with cotton. She hoped to turn away and reach the safety of witnesses, but his hand still held her in place, unrelenting. And then it occurred to her, the anger from the previous afternoon at the wedding ceremony, and her gaze fixed on him like an archer sighting a target. “So _now_  you decide that we need to talk?” she fumed.

                He rolled his eyes, sighing, and his fingers released their grip on her. “Do you have any idea—” he started, and then stopped himself, nodding to Yang and his wife as they passed by the two of them with inquisitive smiles. “Not here,” he said, taking herby the hand again and leading her down the corridor and into one of the castle’s many courtyards.

                Rydia realized it to be the same courtyard she had sought refuge in the night before, and the light lancing into the garden stung her eyes.

“What?” Rydia groaned when he let go of her and took a few steps away.

                She squinted at him, and saw he was looking at her with sympathy; which at the moment, she found to be extremely patronizing.

                “Alcohol really does not sit well with you,” he observed, looking at her from head to toe.

                Rydia frowned. “Did you bring me here to mock me?”

                His smile was fleeting, rueful. “That isn’t why.”

                “What, then? To bring up--” the words clotted on her tongue all of a sudden. She took a deep breath. “Edge, what I said last night…”

                “That isn’t why, either,” he added hastily. “Though—”

                “I don’t want to talk about that,” Rydia interrupted him, wrapping her arms around her waist, embarrassed.

                He exhaled sharply through his nose, almost laughing, and strode further into the garden as if he’d suddenly changed his mind and had decided to avoid her. Again. Exasperated, Rydia followed him.

                “You asked me a question last night,” he finally told her, contenting himself to lean against one of the garden’s vine-draped columns. He was giving her one of his signature, piercing looks—the kind that always left her feeling exposed and a little off-balance. She knew he was studying her for some sort of reaction and wondered what answers he had already found—writ across her face.

                She leaned against a neighboring column, but her gaze drifted to the gravel path between them, and she was curious if she really had the nerve to ask him the same question twice.

                “Yes, I did,” she replied, furtively lifting her eyes to his face.

                He grimaced—then offered her a tight smile—and Rydia imagined it was because he was caught between wanting to ask a question of his own or to give her an answer. She waited. It had been months since they’d spoken properly, after all.

                “You left,” he finally said, as if this explained everything. It didn’t come as an accusation, but rather, as a statement of fact. Nonetheless, Rydia felt a stab of conviction through her heart. It was only the truth, after all.

                Rydia watched a bee climb into one of the flowers that graced the vine beside her, wishing she could be like the bee and fly away from _this_ particular part of the conversation. Inevitably, the source of her distraction _did_ fly away, but she remained, left to devise a response.

               “Of course I left,” she said, daring to look at him, at his stung expression. “I didn’t have a good enough reason to stay.”

                “Were we mortal humans too boring for you?” he flippantly asked, and Rydia was offended by the implication that it was arrogance that had baited her footsteps to the Feymarch’s door.

                “I—” she blurted out, struggling to find words. “You think it was because I didn’t value our friendship, that I left?”

                Edge crossed his arms. “The war ended,” he told her. “We were home. The five of us were no longer tethered together, but at least _some_ of us managed to send word to each other. You, on the other hand...”

                “I didn’t vanish,” she objected. “I _told_ you that you might not see me for a while.”

                “That was when we assumed you’d be returning to Mist, not to the Underworld. Not to the Feymarch.”

                “You’re angry with me for going home?” she asked, incredulous.

                “The last time the Feymarch welcomed you, it claimed ten years of your life. What if you had lived an entire lifetime in the moment it took me to blink and I missed it? I never would have heard a word about it.”

                Rydia stared at him. “You thought—“ and she laughed. “You thought I was going to age so quickly in the time we were apart that you wouldn’t recognize me by the time I returned? Are you really so vain?”

                He drew his brows together. “It was never the age that bothered me, Rydia—although, how long has it really been? A year? Two?—it was the time itself,” he told her irritably.

                Rydia hadn’t noticed it before, but they had both abandoned their former positions and were now standing near each other—so close as to be touching.

                “I left,” she said deliberately, “because there _was_ no other home for me to return to. All of you had your kingdoms, your politics, and all I had were ghosts. I didn’t want to be the object of everyone’s pity. I didn’t want to spend my months as someone else’s guest, and I didn’t want to spend it among burnt out husks or silent graves, either.”

                She was looking up at him and he was looking back at her with equal intensity.

                “Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked. “Were you hoping none of us would notice you were gone?”

                “I was never going to stay there forever—and I sent letters,” she argued.

                “Months later,” he pointed out, “Just long enough to make us wonder if you’d ever deign to re-join society,” he said with a little heat in his voice.

                Rydia felt tears prick the corners of her eyes. “You could have asked,” she told him.

                “I could have—asked you what?” he inquired, confusion evident on his face.

                “You could have asked me to stay,” she blurted out.

                He looked at her strangely. “You just said—”

                “I know what I said,” she replied, angrily waving the discrepancy aside. “But it was always different with you. You never saw me as the lost little girl as everyone else did,” she reflected. “My hands might have been useful in Eblan, where they otherwise would not have been elsewhere. Besides, we had left so many conversations unfinished between us, and I--” Rydia forced herself to an awkward halt, sensing that she had said too much.

                Edge was staring at her dumbly. “If I had just _asked?”_ he sputtered at her, his handsome expression scandalized. “I didn’t realize you were expecting an invitation. I thought you had returned to the Feymarch to avoid the rest of us—to avoid me,” he added as an aside.

               “To avoid you?” she asked and felt her cheeks begin to redden. She hadn’t seen him since the day they’d all parted ways in Mysidia, nor had she heard much from him since. It had been part of the driving force for her to approach him at the wedding in the first place. “I received letters from everyone else,” she realized aloud. “Everyone but you. Just who is avoiding who, here?”

                Edge sighed, and it rang of regret and exasperation. “We did a hell of a job of this, didn’t we?” he asked, running a hand through his hair where it remained remarkably perpendicular to his scalp.

                Rydia sighed as well, only she wasn’t sure where this had all been going anyway. She _did_ have a sudden acute awareness of how close they were standing and how her stomach felt like it was suspended on wings.

                “So,” she forced out after a moment of awkward silence. “Where does this leave us?” she asked.

                “Here. In this garden,” he observed wryly.

                 She gave him a flat look, but felt a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth all the same. “Well, yes,” she answered.

                He looked back at her thoughtfully, and the tension seemed to have melted out of them to be replaced by something else entirely. Rydia felt pressure in the air, an expectant sort of thrumming in the atmosphere of the garden, and she wondered what it could mean.

               “We never _did_ have that dance,” Edge reminded her after another pause, a playful smile on his lips.

               Her own smile was hesitant in return, and she was surprised he would extend another invitation after she had turned him down the night before. It seemed a little absurd, but she shyly gave him her hand, amused by the offer. He stepped closer, wrapping his fingers around hers, and drew her in so close that her nose brushed against the fabric of the loose shirt he was wearing. Their proximity made the tips of her ears burn, and she hoped her blush hadn’t spread all the way down her neck again. There had been enough blushing for one day.

               He invented his own rhythm—he had always been masterful in the art of combat—and Rydia shouldn’t have been surprised at him being masterful in the art of dance as well. He led her through a few sweeping steps, occasionally throwing her weight into turns before pulling her back again.  

               It felt good to be with him, and to have aired at least some of their frustrations—their miscommunications—to each other. Rydia felt that she had re-claimed her friend and former companion. And yet, there was also—

               They had stopped moving, and startled, Rydia gazed up at Edge to find his eyes were searching hers. He brought a hand to her cheek and the feeling of his touch was electric on her skin. She continued to watch him, her breath hitching rapidly in her throat. What was this feeling?

               Before she could even blink, he’d moved so close that she felt his breath on her lips, and then his kiss. It was brief but exquisite and she took in his scent—like cedar and warm earth, of far distances traveled. In the eighteen years of her life, Rydia had never been kissed before, and she found this to be an unexpected but not unwelcome turn of events.

               “You said you didn’t have a good enough reason to stay,” he murmured against her lips. “Was this enough to change your mind?”

               Rydia took in a shaky, startled breath, but grinned, quite unable to stop. “I’d say it’s a definite step in favor of staying,” she replied, hoping giddily that he might give her more reasons like the first.

              “I’ll assume that was a yes,” he said, and brought their lips together again, teasing her with soft kisses, until she giggled, pulling just far enough away to look into his striking gray eyes.

              “I said you could ask, but I never promised I’d stay,” she laughed; not sure at all how she should really react to this entire situation.

               It was his turn to laugh, and Rydia looked up at him quizzically. “What?” she asked.

              His eyes sparkled with mirth. “And here I was just wondering whether or not there should be wine at our wedding.”

               “Our— _what?”_ Rydia’s spine involuntarily straightened and her mouth dropped open from pure outrage.

               “If my first attempt at convincing you wasn’t enough,” he grinned at her, and his expression had become rather roguish.

               Rydia arched a brow. “Now that _is_ presumptuous,” she protested, but he had leaned down to capture her lips in another kiss, this one more prolonged, more fiercely _Edge_ than the others. She was already becoming quite intrigued by this “dance” of theirs, and now she found herself being lost in his attentions, enjoying his closeness.

               When they’d paused for air, she gave him a pointed look. “Edward Geraldine, you are the most— _the_ most insufferable man I know—and you are getting far too ahead of yourself.”

               He was now laughing into her hair. “You have to admit—at least it was clever.”

               Rydia pursed her lips and slipped out from under his chin to give him the hardest glare she could manage under the circumstances. Inevitably her scowl twisted into a grin. “That,” she said evenly. “Was clever, but not nearly clever enough.”

              “So difficult,” he groaned at her, resigned to resting his forehead against hers.

               Rydia sighed, amused. “Would you still find me as interesting if I wasn’t?”

               He paused, considering. “I suppose if you weren’t, I’d have to settle for someone equally frustrating. Cid has a daughter who I hear has quite the persona—“

              Rydia swatted him hard in the shoulder. “I’ll stay,” she relented with another sigh and he flashed her a winsome grin.

              “But don’t you _dare_ think I’ll forgive you for this any time soon,” she warned him, smiling, and poked his chest with an accusing finger.

                He kissed the tip of her nose and chuckled. “Of course not—but it was still worth the attempt.”


End file.
